


Taking the time

by TheMagicMeep



Series: Trust and a lack thereof [4]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Family Fluff, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-01
Updated: 2013-11-01
Packaged: 2017-12-31 05:12:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1027630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMagicMeep/pseuds/TheMagicMeep
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The UK siblings go out drinking after a long day, it goes better than you would think.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Taking the time

**Author's Note:**

> This was one of the first fics I wrote for the fandom, I realised that I have been posting a lot of ScotFra and figured I needed to branch out slightly.
> 
> Anyway I hope you enjoy! The pub is based on a place that I visited when I was younger and I have never seen a place with so much tartan since (the weapons on the wall were damn cool though).

The hotel that they had found was in Wales’s opinion great; it was dry, had plenty of drink and was warm. He didn’t much care about the smell of wet dog, after a day of trekking through Scotland’s countryside he probably smelt a lot worse than the dog. England was unhappy but Wales put that down to the fact that place was so incredibly Scottish.

The room they were sprawled in was dominated by a huge roaring fire, in front of which lay the source of the smell of wet dog, a huge mutt which watched Wales far too closely for his liking. A mud covered Northern Ireland was wandering around examining the weapons which hung from the walls. At the moment he seemed to be engrossed in a huge battle-scarred claymore. Most of the other wall coverings seemed to be dark tartan hangings or dusty pictures of battles with the occasional dramatic Scottish landscape thrown in for good measure.

All except one wall which held an old tale about how English silver candlesticks were shite when compared to a Scotsman holding a burning torch. All in all Wales was rather surprised that England had been able to cross the threshold without turning to dust.  

He was now slumped on a comfy sofa beside Wales, a pint in one hand and looking distinctly worse for wear. He seemed to be dealing with his surroundings by ignoring them completely.

England had not fared well during their walk; having “fallen” into a ditch, with some help from his ever loving older siblings, and being chased by a particularly angry sheep. Later however he had made up with Scotland and Wales as they watched Northern Ireland skid down a muddy hill on his arse.

Eventually North finally got bored of staring at the sword and moved to bother his brothers. “Hey Artie, Gareth can I have a beer?” he asked firm in the knowledge that if they refused then he would just ask Scotland instead.

“Don’t call me Artie!” hissed England, before snapping “I’m not getting up Daniel, if you don’t look old enough to buy it yourself it’s your problem”. Although his refusal probably stemmed a lot more from his aching muscles than any real desire to deny his little brother a drink.

The younger nation gave a disgusted sigh and turned to Wales for support. But Wales was tired; his feet hurt, the dog was glaring if he so much as moved his feet and he just couldn’t be arsed moving, so he shook his head and ignored North storming off to Scotland.

Who was chatting happily with the tall, burly and kilt clad barman while sipping from her whisky and seemingly unbothered by the day of walking.

“Blair can I have a beer?” North asked, his sister raised a red eyebrow at him “I’ve already asked Artie and Gareth and they told me to fuck off”.

“Well if you’ve got the money for it” Scotland said holding out her hand expectantly, North scowled and began to rake through his pockets coming up with a crumpled fiver which he handed over. Scotland took one look at it and snorted, pushing it back into her brother’s hand and pulling out a Scottish fiver in its place.

“What’s wrong with my money?” North grumbled

“Nothing” Scotland replied, quietly adding “but I don’t want to be stuck here for an hour while he figures that out” when the bartender was busy pouring North’s beer.

“It’s legal tender” North muttered rebelliously but Scotland looked completely unrepentant.

“Trying to use Scottish money in England’s no joke either” she reminded him shooting a particularly evil glare at her English brother as though it was all his fault “they look at you like you handed them a dead puppy”.

The barman nodded “I hear that”, and slid North’s pint across to him with a wink before he and Scotland launched into a lengthy discussion on the many failings of the English. Northern Ireland half listened to them until his sister clapped him on the shoulder and dragged off.

The two siblings joined their brothers in front of the fire, Scotland threating England with violence if he didn’t “move his fat arse and give her a fucking seat”. England merely sniffed as he tended to do when Scotland offended his delicate sensibilities by being completely unladylike. Which to be honest was most of the time.

By this time Wales seemed to have fallen into a light snooze but England still looked uneasy in the face of the overabundance of Scottish-ness everywhere he looked. Scotland grinned at him as she sat down.

“Problem?” she asked innocently,

England scowled at her then turned his attention to North and his drink, “I do hope that isn’t very strong, we don’t want to deal with you puking all night”.

Northern Ireland’s muttered response was luckily completely drowned out by the sound of Scotland chocking on her drink and Wales snorting in his “sleep”.

Half an hour and frankly shocking amounts of alcohol later, North was beginning to feel the effects. His siblings were engaged in a loud and spirited conversation about something that had happened long before Northern Ireland had even been “born” and he just felt out of place and a bit lost. It was pathetic he told himself, and this self-induced depression was all the drinks fault.

But the fact remained that it really wasn’t just the drink talking, lately the feeling of not really being one of them was haunting the dark moments before sleep and when he had nothing to do but think.

He was so busy feeling sorry for himself that he didn’t notice when England fell of his barstool and was dragged off to his bed by long-suffering Wales or when Scotland (after she’d stopped sniggering) waved a hand in his face and called his name.

However, North did notice when Scotland hauled him out of the hot and by now crowded pub into the cold and drizzle.

“What the fuck was that for? It’s fucking freezing out here!” Scotland ignored the fact that he had spoken completely and just looked at him worriedly; she even rested a cool hand against his forehead before he shook her off.

“What’s bothering you North” she asked seriously “You’ve been pretty quiet for a while now, and we’re all worried about you”

So they had noticed the increase in his brooding then. North snorted, looking at his mud-covered feet and Scotland sighed.

“You know I had hoped that I’d not have to deal with any teenage shite anymore” she complained. North scowled and wrapped his arms around himself in a half arsed attempt to keep warm.

“Can I go back in now? Only I don’t really want to freeze my balls off…”

His sister gave him the look of scorn that she normally reserved for when she thought Wales and England were being “soft southern bastards”. North ignored it.

“This is what I get for being worried about you!”

The wind chose this moment to pick up and bring with it the sort of cold that went straight to your bones. Scotland didn’t even bat an eyelid, even though her hair was beginning to make her resemble Medusa having a bad hair day.

Enough was enough and North tried to head back inside but Scotland caught him and spun him around so that he was looking into her eyes.

“You know that we love you right? Despite the fact you can be a right little shit at times”.    

North scuffed his feet “I know” he admitted quietly “it’s just… I dunno”.

Scotland suddenly leant forward and pulled him into a tight, bone-crushing hug. For a moment he was frozen, Scotland normally didn’t do hugs for anyone who wasn’t France (or Canada) and out of the blue getting pressed up against his sister’s tits was a bit fucking awkward.

“You are one of us you numpty and don’t you forget that” she told him. North sniffled slightly relaxing into his sister’s arms; it was nice to hear it from her. The fact that his siblings knew what was bothering him should have been embarrassing but it somehow _wasn’t_.     

But still nice as it was to get comfort and a rare hug from his favourite big sister the fact remained that air was getting to get hard to come by. He managed to give her a slight shove “Scotland, can’t breathe”.

She pulled away looking mortified “Shit, I’m sorry”.

“No problem” wheezed North, but Scotland still looked like she wanted to sink into the ground and never be seen again. “Can we head back in now? I want to check on Wales”

She nodded grateful for the distraction “best go help him before he starts moaning again”. This was a valid concern as the last time Wales had been left alone to deal with a drunken England had been a disaster and both Scotland and Northern Ireland had never heard the end of it. 

As they went back into the stifling warmth of the pub North mumbled “Hey Scotland?”

She glanced at him “Hmmm?”

“Thanks”

  


End file.
